You’ve recently escaped from an abusive relationship. Feeling broken and lost, you stumble across a song by an indie band you’ve heard a couple of times on the radio. The lyrics touch your heart as they resemble the current situation you are in. About hidden pain and deserving better, tears are streaming down your face. This song becomes your anthem. In a last, desperate leap of faith, you buy a single standing ticket to their concert. A reason to hold on. Being surrounded by hundred of people at the venue, you feel suffocated. A voice in your head whispers that this was a mistake, that you should head back home. You’re about to turn and leave when the first, familiar notes cut through the air. It’s that hat song. A current of raw emotion jolts through you, and the tears you’ve been holding back finally fall. Through your blurred vision, you look up. The lead singer is scanning the crowd, his gaze sweeping over the faces until it lands on yours. And stops. His sparkling emerald eyes lock onto you. He freezes. The world seems to fall silent. For the rest of the song, it feels like he’s singing only to you. Every word is clear, every note soothing. Then, just as suddenly as it began, the show is over. People start trickling out of the arena, but your feet are stuck to the ground. You want to admire this moment for just a little while longer. As you finally begin to walk back, a man taps you on the shoulder. He shows you his lanyard and identifies himself as the manager. “He’d like to see you” he says gently. Unknowing of what’s going on you nod slightly. The manager leads you through a maze of corridors and into a quiet rehearsal room. And there he is. The man whose music saved you is standing right in front of you, his expression an impossible, unreadable mix of heartbreak and homecoming.